Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Father's Day
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Continuing my WIP, "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle" for @a-monthly-rumbelling, June prompt: drinking, karaoke, dancing, kissing, date. No karaoke here, but Jo and Cerise get some dating, dancing and kissing done between magic lessons. Cerise has doubts about falling in love with a human, until Mr. Gold reveals startling information. Gold gets to meet his descendants.


I'm late getting to the garden for the Wednesday magic lesson, so I'm puzzled to find Mr. Gold's two students seated at a folding table and playing chess. I seat myself on the bench, close to Gold's wheelchair, and I lean over to whisper, "Sorry I'm late. Are you holding up the lesson because of me?" When Gold shakes his head, I press, "I thought you were going to teach them magic today."

He tilts his head toward the boys. "Look closer." I get up so I can walk around to the pupils' sides, and then I see it: a black pawn rises from the game board, floats into the air, shudders, falls, then abruptly rises again and is carried by an amazing force to the box lid sitting on the grass. A rook takes the emptied square.

"Very good, Stan," Gold praises, but the seven-year-old looks anxious as he glances across the board to us adults. His voice quavers a little. "I messed up there. I lost my concentration. I'm sorry, Mr. Gold."

Now it's my turn to worry a little, because Mr. Gold is such a perfectionist, especially when it comes to magic, which, he reminds his pupils (me included) can be dangerous if handled carelessly. And Stan Steinberg, who comes from a family of mages stretching back (his demanding father likes to boast) nine generations, tries so hard in everything—magic, academics, sports—and fails so miserably in it all. Having four older siblings whose powers come easily has only added to Stan's stress. To make matters downright unbearable, Stan is the smallest in his class and a regular target for bullies. He's heard the legends about Mr. Gold—every Storybrooker has—and when Blue announced to the Steinbergs that Gold was willing to teach Stan, for the first time ever, Stan felt special and his parents treated him so (after his father snorted, "Is this some kind of joke" and his mother insisted Blue check her notes again because "surely you mean Harold or Henrietta or even Jerry"). Stan's sun rises and sets on Mr. Gold. A word or even a sound of disappointment will break his heart.

"For a first lesson, for one of your age and inexperience, your concentration and skill are to be commended." And in case any of those big words goes over the child's head, Gold adds with a smile, "Good job, Master Stanley. And it was a smart chess move too."

The boy giggles and sighs with relief at the same time, then, gathering his nerve, challenges his opponent, the eight-year-old Malloy Briggs, son of two witches. "Your move, Mal." When Malloy succeeds in moving a knight with his magic, Stan generously applauds him. I'm so happy for these boys I could bust and I look over to Mr. Gold to whisper that to him, but I find I don't have to: he's grinning from ear to ear. "I think I see now," I whisper instead.

"Very good, Ms. Cerise, because when the boys leave, you and I will play magic chess—except, given the burden of my inhibitor," he taps his cuff, "you will make all the moves."

I chuckle and sit back to watch the rest of the game. When we play that evening—yes, with me using my magic to move all the pieces—Gold explains his plan to me. "Only through my relationship with Belle did I learn that everyone, even the Dark One, needs friends. It's as life-giving as air and water. If Stan and Mal are to find a place in this world, they must first find friends. The support and protection of other people, not magic, is what will shield them from those who would torment them, including themselves."

I mull this over when I go to bed that night. I'm not sure I would have dared to begin my magic training if the offer of it hadn't come from a friend, nor would I have begun the hard work of becoming a self-reliant, responsible adult. I'm taking my lessons in both arenas with the assurance that when I fall—and I do, frequently—I have two friends to pick me up.

* * *

On our next Saturday together Jo drives me to New York. When he picks me up, he won't tell me what for, only that I should dress casually. I presume we're going to a play or a museum, but I presume wrong. When we step out and send the car on its way, we're in front of an elegant and very large church, and we're quickly swallowed up in a crowd. We have no choice but to let them nudge us inside. "The Cathedral of St. John the Divine," Jo says as we enter, as if that should explain everything. We follow a line of chattering people to a pew and we sit down, crowded in among the strangers. No one seems to mind. In fact, the people around us chatter to us as enthusiastically as if we were age-old friends. "I've seen him three times," my seatmate gushes. "And you?"

"I, ah. . . ."

"Once in Colorado, twice in Boston, but this—" she waves a hand at the aging beauty of the church. "This is special. Historical."

"Historical?" I prod for a little information, even though she takes a small insult at my ignorance.

"You don't _know_? Philippe was an artist in residence here for years. He performed here many—" She interrupts herself to remark to the person seated on Jo's other side. Talking across us doesn't strike her as rude, apparently, nor does criticizing me openly. "She doesn't know about this cathedral!"

"Doesn't know?" the man scoffs. "How could you not know?" He glares at me as if I've insulted the cathedral itself. "How could you be here and not know?"

"We're newbies," Jo snaps, and our seatmates shut up instantly, not only chastised but somewhat intimidated by his size. "I heard about this on the news and I wanted to see for myself. And I was sure my girlfriend would be thrilled—if other people don't spoil it for us."

Butts slide away from us. The strangers turn toward seatmates sitting in opposite directions to us. Jo grunts, folds his arms. "Sorry, Cherie. The show's going to be worth it, believe me. If it's not, we'll go out for a show this evening."

"You've never steered me wrong." Actually, I think the incident is kind of funny. And as the lights dim and an MC appears on the stage upon which I'd expect to see a choir and a priest, my curiosity is piqued. In another moment, I'm intrigued: a brief film is shown to introduce us to a fascinating red-haired Frenchman from the mid-1900s, whose claims to fame included a tightrope walk across what were then the two tallest buildings in the world. My mouth drops open as the slippered young man performs, crossing and recrossing the inch-thick cable strung 1350 feet high. He's more dancer than acrobat, more artist than stuntman. His performance is a ballet on a very tall and narrow stage. Back and forth, back and forth, for nearly an hour, with no net below and only a pole and his own finely honed body to balance him, Petit dances, smiling. When he pauses, it's not to give up, but to seat himself on the one-inch wire. "My god," I find myself gasping, but the applause all around me assures me this will come out all right. Still, when the slight, dark-dressed figure lies down on his back, I seize Jo's shirt and bury my face against his chest.

"It's okay." He strokes my back. "Philippe Petit lived to be 97 and died of a heart attack while he was sawing boards in a barn he'd built by hand."

Relieved, I return my attention to the film, just in time to see the triumphant aerialist, now safely planted on the rooftop, being handcuffed by policemen. The movie continues with images of Petit's other wirewalks, narrated with his bio. When it concludes, the house lights are raised and the MC comes out, encouraging us to look up to the ceiling. "From 124 feet above your heads, ladies and gentlemen, please meet Philippe Petit Durand."

I crane my neck up until it aches. On a platform no wider than a book stands a slight man in black. He is a blond, but as he bows to us over the long pole in his hands, he seems as elegantly graceful as his namesake. I lean in to Jo: "Is this guy related to the Tower walker?"

"Not by blood, but by spirit. But judge for yourself."

The MC declares, "Monsieur Durand will perform, step by step, the very same walk that Philippe Petit performed that amazing day in 1974."

We all applaud, our cheers echoing off the walls, but when Durand shifts a foot from the platform onto the wire, we fall completely silent. There is no net to catch him as he steps boldly out onto the inch of cable. We hold our breath and clutch our companions' hands, because this isn't a film or a hologram; it's a flesh-and-blood man who could, if his judgment is just a centimeter off, if his body trembles in the slightest, if he so much as sneezes, fall to his death. I feel guilty for the thrill coursing through me. To my right, I hear my gossipy seatmate begin a prayer-chant in a voice so low I can't make out the words. People around her take up the same chant—this chant, I realize, is part of the ritual of the show. For an hour Durand strolls and dips and lifts on his toes to turn around. When he lowers himself to sit on the cable, again, I have to hide my face. This is real, too real, this man could die. I shouldn't be encouraging such neck-risking behavior by watching. If he falls, I'll be a conspirator in his death.

"Incredible." Jo's voice comes from deep in his chest. "Such skill! Such balance!"

The fact that Jo's focused on something besides Durand's courage (foolish courage? I haven't decided yet) brings my attention back around. "Look at his feet," Jo whispers. "Perfectly placed. He's a mathematician with his feet. An engineer with his torso. Even his fingers, exactly placed on the pole."

Somehow the prayer-chant seeps into my subconscious and I know now what they're saying because I'm chanting it too: "Perfection, perfection, perfection." I no longer feel guilty. What's happening up there no longer seems foolish, or even dangerous: it's Nureyev in _Sleeping Beauty_ , it's Baryshnikov in _The Nutcracker._ I hone in on the slippers, the fingers, the pole as Durand and his partner the wire dance together. When he returns at last to the platform and takes a final bow, I'm clapping so hard my hands hurt, my blouse sticking to my back. Jo is whistling between his teeth.

We're too excited after that for museums or plays, too excited for dinner. We share a bottle of champagne at a nearby nightclub. Although we were only spectators, Durand's victory feels like ours.

The next morning, I decorate my office with three framed images: an illustration of Victoria Woodhull and photos of Philippe Durand and Katherine and Marjorie Stinson. A thought flashes into my mind as I step back to admire my new collection: these people were all humans. Not a drop of magic between them.

It takes courage to be human. I wonder if I could be half as brave, if I were one of them.

* * *

Inspired by the intense focus and determination I witnessed on Durand's face, and driven by the memory of women cowering in a warehouse, I throw myself into my study of magic. Like his two pupils, I take more delight in the "exercises," as Mr. Gold calls the practical application portion of our lessons: the books, especially those written by Gold himself, can be dry in style and convoluted in sentence structure. Well, and to be honest, there's a knot of anxiety in my belly that no amount of entertainment with Jo can loosen. I was created for a purpose, that knot reminds me, a purpose beyond caring for the elderly, else why would I have been created a fairy and not a human? By denying my magic for so many years, I ignored my purpose. I must rectify that before the next Kyle Nottingham emerges.

So I study all the books Mr. Gold requires me to, and I "exercise" under his watchful eye, obeying his rules, though they're an anchor chained to my ankle. Even while I'm having lunch, I'm listening to magic books being read to me by my personal automated assistant, Pierre (now renamed Rajesh so I can enjoy a Delhi accent). I will do this, but I will do it right, so I won't fail another Maxine Nottingham. A fairy I am, much as I would wish it otherwise.

* * *

We're on a leisurely trail ride through the North Woods, just Jo and me on a pair of rented horses from Rocinante Stables. In our saddlebags are sandwiches and a bottle of wine for us, apples for the horses. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow at a suggested date activity, but as soon as we climbed out of his car and stepped into the valley where a herd of horses moved slowly, cropping mouthfuls of grass, I can see Jo relax. I come out here sometimes for the same reason. I have no explanation for it: I just feel peaceful. "We'll be doing this again," I assure Jo, even before we mount up. Something about the valley felt familiar to me from the very first. I mention this to Jo, and he mulls it over as we find the trail leading into the woods and the horses, without urging, follow it as if it's part of their daily routine.

"I feel that way about Mills Lake. It's not just that it's part of my childhood: it's something deeper. My dad called it 'part of Storybrooke's collective unconscious.' My grandpa was born beside Eva's Lake in the Enchanted Forest; he said that's why I'm drawn to the lakeside. For you, maybe this place strikes a chord because it's like Mab's Meadow."

I nod; something in what he's said rings true. We ride on in silence, until I dare to bring up the subject that's been gnawing at me. If we're a couple—if we're a couple bound for something permanent—we need to touch the hurtful subjects. "Jo, have you. . . does it bother you at all that I'm a fairy?"

"And I'm not?" He finishes for me. "I've grown up around people who have magic. Even though nobody in my family has ever had any, or for that matter, ever _tried_ to acquire any, you can't grow up in Storybrooke without magic affecting your life. You'd have to be a hermit to avoid it. Something like a third of everyone in town has some degree of magic. Friends, business associates—" he gives me a shy smile. "Girlfriends."

"But. . .with a fairy, it's a bit more. I mean, we look human, but we're not. We're different all the way down to the cellular level." I'm trying to be delicate. I can be, with him; he seems to understand me.

He reddens a bit. "Have there been successful marriages between humans and fairies?"

"It's forbidden. But yes, a few have defied law and convention." I stroke my horse's mane, soothing myself rather than the perfectly placid animal. The selfish part of me is screaming an easy way out for me: it's too soon in this relationship to talk about marriage, let alone children. We should be concentrating strictly on having fun. But the other part of me recognizes that what I'm feeling surpasses the casual, and that Jo's the kind of guy you _do_ have a relationship with, and he deserves honesty—and a fair warning, in case fatherhood is in his long-range plans. "There have been. . . no children from these marriages."

"Oh." He falls silent, pretending to concentrate on a small battle he's having with his horse, who'd rather crop grass than walk the trail. A little firm and persistent but gentle persuasion and Jo wins the battle.

As we ride on, I reflect, once again, on another matter that Jo's comment has raised for me. Gold and Belle, a sorcerer and a human, had a long, happy marriage (with children). Until the difference between them that lay at the cellular level split them apart. The difference not magic nor love could overcome: she could die and did. He couldn't.

In America, human males live an average of 107 years. Fairies, no matter where they are, live an average of 502 years. I'm only 23. I have a long, long time to go.

I'm only 23. I should be thinking of the sunny day ahead, the smooth trail winding through the quiet woods. The kisses, and maybe something more, waiting me for tonight.

But 400 years alone. . . . It's a very big hurdle to overcome. Is it a barrier? For Mr. Gold, it wasn't. He knew the price, when he gave his heart to Belle. But to be so alone now, for so long—I don't know if I'm strong enough for that.

Jo is silent. That's not extraordinary for him, but when it's accompanied, as it is now, by a frown, and when that frown results from a serious discussion about a problem that could cause a fission between us, I get worried. When he senses me watching him, he blinks and summons a smile and tries to start a conversation about his plans for our dinner tonight. He attempts to draw me—and himself—into pleasantries again, but that frown—that frown lingers.

* * *

"It's because I'm a fairy." I plop down on Mr. Gold's couch, then slide into a pouty slump, my arms crossed, either angrily or protectively or both.

"Good morning to you too." Gold flicks a finger toward the tea set waiting on his coffee table. He's having a moderately bad day; he can't move his hands, but a quick glance at his bio panel assures me his vitals are normal, and this morning's report from Andy indicated Mr. Gold slept well last night. I feel a little guilty for dumping my problems on him when he's got bigger ones of his own, ones that I'm paid to help alleviate.

"Sorry, Mr. Gold."

"No matter. Go ahead, let's talk. But pour the tea first, eh?"

I've sent Andy away so I could talk to Gold alone, so I'll need to handle Gold's tea cup for him. I don't mind. My hands need to stay busy right now, to burn off the nervous energy that would otherwise produce frustrated tears. I continue to talk as I prepare his cup. "He knew that from the beginning. I never tried to hide it. Why now?"

"Oh. This is about Josiah."

"He knew what I was when we started dating." I stir his tea to cool it to an agreeable temperature, and the stirring turns into a whirlpool when a new thought occurs to me. "Or is he one of those—one of those curiosity seekers that wants to have some fun toying with another species?"

"I wouldn't say you're another species, dear one."

I put the spoon aside and lift the cup to Gold's lips. He blows on the tea for a moment before accepting a sip. "That's good," he signals me to lower the cup. "Now, sit down, drink your tea and tell me the story from the beginning."

I describe yesterday's conversation. When I end the story and fall silent, Gold simply stares at me, perplexing me. "What?"

"I'm waiting for the rest," he points out.

"That was it. I said there'd been no children from those marriages, he said 'Oh' and then he frowned and didn't say anything for a while. When he did, it was what he was going to cook for dinner."

"And 'oh' means to you 'I'm rejecting you'? Or 'Our relationship can't go anywhere'?"

"Well, I. . . ."

"You've invested a lot of power in that 'oh.'"

I let my anger redirect to the nearest target. "Well, what would _you_ think it means, if you were me?"

"If I were you, I would have asked him instead of jumping to conclusions." Gold's mouth tightens. "But being me, I probably would've reacted the same way you did, in the days before I learned to trust Belle to be open and honest with me." He peers hard at me. "Josiah's never given you reason to doubt his honesty, has he?"

"No."

"Perhaps he just needs a little time to sort out his thoughts before he's ready to be open about them. More tea, please." He accepts a longer drink this time. "I think we both know Josiah is hardly one to toy with people."

"It was unfair of me to say that."

"Yes, it was." Gold leans back in his wheelchair and sighs. "I haven't intervened in a couple's relationship since Snow White and Prince Charming, but I am tempted now. Perhaps I'm invested in you, or more likely, I'm growing soft in my old age. Cerise, please step out of the room. I'll ring for you when I'm ready."

Now I have reason to be annoyed with him. "What are you going to do, Mr. Gold?"

"I'm going to make a brief call, and then, I believe, we can clear up this misunderstanding."

I take my tea to my office, where I pretend to peruse the latest issue of _Gerontology_ _Today_ _,_ but I no sooner have selected an article when the House buzzes me, asking me to return to Gold's chambers. I go, my stomach in knots, and the knots only tighten when, through Mr. Gold's door, I hear Jo's voice. I ring; Mr. Gold calls for me to enter; the door slides open to reveal his back. On the wall, Jo's frowning face is projected. Oh. . . .

"I'm sorry, Cherie. I didn't mean to upset you," he blurts.

My thoughts are thrown. I've misinterpreted the frown: he's feeling guilty. Does that mean I was wrong about yesterday too?

"I took the liberty of explaining the situation," Gold says. "Because I have the solution, but I must have Josiah's permission first. Please, sit down, Cerise. There's a bit of story to this."

I lower myself to the couch as Mr. Gold shifts his wheelchair so that he can see both of us at once. "What's going on?"

"You're worried about the difference between us: you being a fairy and me being—not a fairy," Jo begins.

"More precisely, you're worried that you'll end up like me," Mr. Gold lets bitterness creep into his voice. "A centuries-long widower. And yes, I will not deceive you: this is not a life I would have chosen, if I had had the power to change it. But my curse left me with two options: either live beyond the reach of love and heartbreak, or allow love in and all the pain that comes with it. You know which I chose. I have no regrets for my choice."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold," I murmur.

"Cherie, there's something I haven't told you yet. I didn't think it would matter. And I have to tell you, I'm uncertain about it myself," Jo tries to explain. "But an ounce of information can prevent a pound of worry, my mom would say, so, Mr. Gold, tell her the story."

"Very well. Cerise, this is a story about the origin of Jo's paternal grandparents."

That seems an odd turn of phrase. "Origin?"

"Back in the old old days, when I was a dark sorcerer living alone in my castle high in the mountains above Azmar—that was the Kingdom ruled by Snow White's forebears—I found I needed a quieter way to deliver and receive messages. Magical messaging can be quite annoying, you see: those who beg for favors get so loud. That 'call his name three times' bit got old fast. So I used one of the same systems of message delivery as the humans down below me did: carrier pigeon. Except pigeons being so common, I trained a dove instead."

"Dove." My voice flattens as I begin to guess where this story will lead.

"I chose a strong young male. For more than a year he worked for me, delivering messages through rain and sleet and darkest night. A brave and loyal servant. I wanted to reward him, so I captured a strong young female to become his mate."

"An arranged marriage."

"You could call it that. Both parties were willing. Eager, in fact. And my faithful servant no longer had to travel through his short life alone. Doves mate for life, whatever realm they live in."

"But?"

"But then one night as Dove was out on a mission for me a cyclone struck. I feared for his safety. I discovered him the next morning perched on my windowsill, one wing broken. He'd hopped all the way from Azmar. I repaired his wing, nurtured him back to health; I daresay his mate provided encouragement. And when he was well again, I asked him how he wished to be rewarded. Anything in my power, I said; and my power was considerable."

My eyes narrow. "Mr. Gold, are you telling me that Jo's grandparents—?"

"Dove wanted to be human. His mate wished to stay with him."

My eyes widen. "So you changed them into people." I gape at Jo, who nods confirmation.

"I did. I offered to change them back, if ever they grew tired of their new bodies, but they never did." Gold cocks his head.

"So there it is, Cherie," Jo sums up. "My grandparents started life as doves. Though of course I've never seen them in that form. So I'm not sure, but I might be half-human, half-bird."

"To be frank," Mr. Gold interjects, "I'm not really sure what your genetics may be. As far as I could tell, the transmutation was complete. No sign of ever having been a bird remained in either Josiah Sr. or his wife."

"Neither one of us is quite human, I guess. Maybe we're not so. . . .But there's still the difference in lifespan. It's likely I'm going to outlive him by five lifetimes."

"Are you sure? My grandparents on Mom's side are approaching 130 and are both quite active," Jo says. "Grandpa and Grandma Dove are—well, if you include their years in the Enchanted Forest, how old would you say, Mr. Gold?"

Gold speculates. "The fact is, I don't know myself exactly what I did when I made them human. It was a decade or two before the Second Ogre War. I'd done the transmutation before, on other species: a dog into a cat—the beastie wouldn't stop barking, so I decided I'd prefer a quiet 'meow'—a horse into a unicorn, a bull into a man. I intended to make a study of it, find out the long-term consequences, but then Regina's Curse was cast." He shrugs. "I honestly don't know how long Josiah the First and his wife may live. Frankly, I'm rather proud that my magic has held up so well so long, and across realms."

Jo compliments him. "It is impressive."

"Something to ponder, isn't it?" Gold wheels his chair around. "You two need to talk alone. I'll see you at dinner, Sparrow." We're silent as he rolls out, the door whooshing closed behind him.

Jo changes direction. "Cherie, some of those programs I've taken you to see—the dinner with Victoria Woodhull, the wirewalk, the lecture about the Stinson sisters—I chose them because I enjoy watching you light up. Those daredevils are heroes to you." He pauses, gathering his words carefully. "Sometimes, deciding to move forward in a relationship can take courage too. A couple can imagine all sorts of things going wrong, especially when there are significant differences between them. One of the things I like about you, Cherie, is you're imaginative, where I'm not. But sometimes your imagination runs away with you."

I have to nod.

"I'm asking you—I enjoy my time with you. I'd like to see what we can become together. I don't know yet if our relationship will grow. If it does, I don't know if we can have a long life together. No couple ever knows that. I don't know what the difference in our DNA might do to our relationship. I do know that I come from a long line of true love. I think you've got the courage and I've got the faith, so we might make it work. Do you want to try?"

I want so much to touch him right now, but the best I can do is to rest my hand against the projected image of his chest. "I can be such a fool. I'm sorry for going off the rails like that, Jo."

"Do we still have a date for Friday, then?" His hand presses against the image of mine.

"If you'll still have me."

"I'll pick you up at seven."

* * *

"Some mages have an inclination toward healing, some have an inclination toward battle. It is what it is," Gold shrugs. "You're the former; you have a natural talent for mending broken bones and restitching broken skin. That's common for fairies."

"But I need to be able to fight." I'm panting, sweat dripping from my hair into my eyes. I don't wipe it away; the burn is a small punishment for my failure to create even the smallest fireball. Throughout my entire practice session, I've visualized myself standing outside that warehouse, with fearful faces pressed against the windows and Kyle Nottingham in gunfighter stance blocking the doorway. I sweat and strain to summon the full force of my magic, but all that appears in my palm is a ball of gauze.

I share my waking nightmare with Mr. Gold. I seem to be confessing everything to him these days.

"Learn to appreciate your strengths." At my scoffing grunt, he elaborates. "Anything can be a weapon if it's used with enough force, and precisely. A ball of gauze can bind or blind your opponent. The potion that you use to allow a feverish patient to rest can put your opponent into a momentary deep sleep. Read Machiavelli Nicholas' _Seven_ _Simple Magical Defenses_ tonight. We'll discuss it at tea tomorrow."

I read. We discuss. I "exercise" and read some more.

* * *

As Jonquil bids us goodnight, I ask brightly, "Where are we going for dinner?" It's Jo's turn to choose.

"Tong's," he answers.

I hum and raise a suspicious eyebrow. Tong's is one of _my_ favorites: Thai spices don't sit well on Jo's stomach.

"You caught me." He chuckles as we leave the Arbor grounds. "I was hoping to butter you up. I need a favor."

I like this. Since our relationship began, I've felt at a bit of a disadvantage; he's done so much for me and I've yet to find a way to balance the scales. He's so self-sufficient, so settled into his life that I'm constantly reminded of the gap in our ages—and our life experiences. "Whatever it is, it's yours."

As we pause for the crosswalk, he scowls at his boots. "You said that while you were in college, you took a ballroom dance class."

"You remember _that_?" I'd made that remark in passing as we were watching a Fred Astaire movie. "That's one of the things I like about you, Jo: you're a good listener."

"Well, this time, it's not such a noble quality. Kind of selfish, in fact." The light changes and we cross the street, passing cars whose headlights cast our shadows across our path. "I committed that to memory because—I can't dance. Tried to learn, bought some books, took lessons by hologram, but—it's genetic. Nobody in the history of my family has ever managed so much as a box step." His words tumble on top of each other, and from that I learn his frustration is genuine. "See, every fall the Chamber of Commerce partners with our sister city in Misthaven to hold a formal ball. I've always fibbed my way out of it, but, well, this year, I was hoping I wouldn't have to."

"I'd love to! We'll start on Saturday." I can feel a shift in our relationship already.

"Not so quick, Cherie. I wasn't exaggerating when I said I'd tried before. You know those creature features you like so much? What's the name of that Japanese dinosaur?"

"You mean Godzilla?"

"Godzilla. Well, picture King Kong waltzing with Godzilla in downtown Tokyo. That's what it'll be like, teaching me to dance."

I wave the image away. "We can push the furniture aside in your dining room. That lovely hardwood floor will make a fine surface."

"Okay, if you're really willing to risk it, but you should wear my mom's waders for the first lesson. They may save you from broken toes." We step inside the red-and-gold-lined restaurant and breathe in the spices before choosing a table. My worries of the day supplanted, I begin to map out a plan for the lessons and calculate my plan against the calendar. "We won't make it to the rumba, but we'll be well into the Argentine tango by the time of the ball."

He looks doubtful, both at my calculations and at the menu selections. "Maybe you're being a bit overly ambitious, Cherie. But brave. Very brave." He raises his water glass in a salute. "That's one of the things I like about you."

His words pass in one ear and out the other because I'm busy daydreaming. "Once you've got the box step down, we'll work on the waltz. It's my favorite dance."

"Because it's elegant and classy?" he guesses.

"Because it places the dancers in the perfect position for kissing."

Two days later, we have our first lesson.

Three days later, I'm limping into Mr. Gold's room. "Mr. G., is there a protective spell for toes?"

* * *

It's Father's Day. Back by popular demand is the "meet your grandparent" activity from Mother's Day. Blue is pleased that it's so popular; she wants it to become a staple. I feel a little guilty for repeating myself, but then who am I to argue with holiday traditions? A decade from now, my "Granny and Gramps Days" will be a feature of Arbor on the Bae as dependable and anticipated as a visit from Santa.

And so the residents "converse" holographically with their grandpas, but the pinnacle of my day comes in the evening, when Jo arrives during proper visiting hours and bearing proper visiting treats: sugarless cookies and non-alcoholic wine. (He shares a glass first with Jonquil, so she can testify for us that we're legitimate). I've reserved the Holodeck—did so months ago, expecting it to be in demand on this holiday. I sneak bites at my fingernails as Mr. Gold, Jo and I stand outside the 'deck door, awaiting admission. Apart from the android Hawking, we're alone in this wing of the House, everyone else enjoying music and cake in the dining room, just as I had planned it. The 'deck raises it lights and brings up the heat a few degrees as we enter, Hawking snaps to attention and asks if he may be of service, and I order him to fetch tea. While he's out, I come around to face Mr. Gold. Subtly, Jo trails behind me, linking his fingers through mine.

"Mr. Gold," I draw in a breath for my little rehearsed speech. "If a fairy could have a father, you would be mine." Now that I hear them, the words don't sound right; I sputter. "What I mean—"

"I understand, Sparrow. And I am honored. Especially for the sentiment to come from one of your kind to one of mine, a sworn enemy." His voice is husky. "It's been a long, long time since I had a reason to acknowledge Father's Day."

Now my tear ducts burn. I'd better get through my speech before I lose the power to speak altogether. "Mr. Gold, I wanted more than anything to give you something that would lift your spirits and remind you what a difference you've made in the world."

Jo's fingers tighten in mine as he commands the 'deck: "Program 13A."

"So Jo and I—I hope you won't consider this an intrusion into your privacy. Jo and I did some research, and we contacted a few people, and"—where is my eloquence? I'd thought I was prepared for this. "You can tell us if you don't like it, if it disturbs you and you want us to stop playing it."

He cocks his head at me. "You needn't be nervous, Sparrow. Whatever it is, I'm going to love it because it came from my two favorite people."

Embarrassed, I nod at Jo, who instructs the 'deck: "Lower the lights. Play program." We stand aside to watch the wall with Mr. Gold.

A petite, dark-haired woman in a bright blue dress and sky-high heels flickers into view. Her blue eyes dance as she dimples at us. "Rumple, my darling."

For the moment, that image is real to him and he answers. "Sweetheart!"

"Our handsome hero," she corrects herself. "That's what today is for. We've come to show you what a hero you are to us, what you've meant to us, all of us." We can hear the smile in her voice. "After all, none of us would be here, if not for you. So darling, here we are, to thank you for being our handsome hero." None of her speech is real—the computer program edited the phrases together from recordings—but to us, the viewers, her words flow naturally, punctuated with small breaths; her chest rises and falls gently, her hand flutters, her eyes blink, her sleeve ripples as though a breeze were stirring the fabric. We can even smell her rose-scented perfume.

She shifts to the side and from out of the background, Baelfire strides forward. He wears jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and a small beard and a cockeyed grin. "Papa, happy Father's Day."

"Oh, Bae. My beautiful boy."

"Thank you for the sacrifices you made for me: the times you went hungry so I could eat, the times you went cold so I could have a second blanket, the hours you spent teaching me the names of things. Do you remember? You and me on our bellies on the forest floor, watching the ants build their colony, examining the plants. I forgot those things for a while, but not any more. Never any more will I forget everything you did for me." Bae clears his throat. "Especially the biggest one, the biggest sacrifice any parent could make for a child, when you took the knife, to protect me. I understand that sacrifice now, Papa, and it was your bravery that gave me the strength to do what I had to, to save Henry. I'm proud to be your son." He smiles at us for a silent moment, allowing his father time to digest all he's said, before he shifts to the side and extends his arm behind him. "And so are they."

Emerging from the background come a gray-haired woman in a lab coat and a balding fellow in a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up. "Joy! Gid!" Gold exclaims.

"Dad!" one answers him; the other chipping in, "Pop!"

Gold's arms open wide, and it breaks my heart that our technology is too primitive to permit the sense of touch between viewer and viewed. When his arms remain open despite the holo-actors' inability to approach him, it occurs to me that his memory is more powerful than any technology can ever be. "Pop!" With a hasty glance at his sister, Gideon Gold blurts out his thanks for his father's attentive, affectionate parenting. He recalls the birdhouses and the bicycles they assembled together, the laptop that, at age six, he disassembled. "But you didn't punish me. You didn't even chew me out. Remember what you did, Pop? You took me down to your shop and sat me down in the workroom, and we spent hours trying to put that damn laptop back together."

Gold is laughing. "We failed. Miserably."

"Dinnertime came and went, but we couldn't figure it out. Finally Mom called us back home and we had to give up, but we put the pieces into a cupboard. You said, 'We'll try again another day. We'll make it work again someday.' We did try again, remember? A dozen times. Never did get it fixed. The day Mom died, Mr. Dove let me into the shop and I found that laptop. I never told you, Pop, but I worked on it that night, after you'd all gone to bed. I got the computer fixed, Pop. I guess, I just had to feel like I could fix something, since I couldn't fix Mom." Belle rests a hand on his shoulder as she kisses his cheek. "Got that from you, I guess, that persistence, along with a hundred other qualities that made me the man I became. You know what accomplishment I'm most proud of, Pop?"

Gold nods. "Your kids."

"I was a good father to Gabby and Grace. I was a good father because I knew how, because I learned how from you."

"My turn, Mr. Chatterbox," Jo jumps in. "I've got a forest floor story too. Remember, Dad? We'd all go out to the cabin on weekends, and while Mom and Gid read stories by the fire, you and I'd go out with magnifying glasses and plastic containers, and you taught me all about the medicinal properties of plants. We'd gather up bumblebee weed to make tea for sore throats, boneset for laxatives, ginger for motion sickness. I was a beneficiary of your knowledge and patience, too, and I brought those with me into the lab. I guess you could say there are thousands of people none of us Golds will ever meet that are beneficiaries of your teaching, including, of course, Zach and Jennifer."

In an eye blink three women and a man appear, crowded into the picture with Bae, Belle, Joy and Gid. They introduce themselves, for the record; Gold of course recognizes them all. Each shares a memory and an expression of gratitude for something special their grandfather gave them, something unique that only Rumplestiltskin Gold could have given, something individualized to each child's interests and talents: Jennifer, the emergency room nurse; Zach, the activist; Gabrielle the ballet dancer; Grace the pastor. And when they have finished, they stand aside and are joined by more women and men: Marshall the elementary school teacher; Sarah the sommelier. The family grows and grows until they fill every inch of every wall in the 'deck. It's breathtaking, the scope and majesty of this family, their accomplishments, not only in their careers and their communities but in their personal lives. When it is almost through, when all but one have spoken, Gold slowly wheels around, his open palm outstretched, and memorizes each face, each voice, each story. So different, they are, though some features repeat: Belle's blue eyes in faces born long after her death; Rumplestiltskin's spinner's fingers, disappearing for a generation before reappearing in the next; a snicker like hers; a smirk like his. Long down the line there even appears a nun, who bursts out laughing as she introduces herself ("I know how you feel about my kind, but I hope you'll make a concession for me, Great-Grandpapa! My parents tried to ensure it by naming me Belle.").

I'd given anything right now if he could rise from that wheelchair and walk into their arms, but I'll have to settle for the prize Jo and I worked so hard to win. The breathing, moving figures on the walls freeze, and house lights come up a step and all sound ceases for a moment. Puzzled, Gold looks to me for an explanation, but I don't want him to miss this, so with a gesture I direct his attention to the center of the floor. A band of pale pastel lights shimmers in the air, there's a crackle, then a slight figure appears before us. Alas, we can see through him; if we walked around him we'd see he was two-dimensional; but this will have to do until, perhaps, someday, we can bring the real men together.

He's slight, even scrawny, barely five-foot-nine, and his hair is the color of rich earth overturned for spring planting, and his eyes are McCutcheon brown, his irises abnormally large, his cheekbones prominent and his cheeks gaunt. He wears a gray jacket emblazoned with NASA insignia. He blinks, his smile uncertain. "Hello? I guess I should be used to this by now, talking to someone who's separated from me by 34 million miles and a 14 minute delay. I'm sorry we won't be able to have a real conversation; that will have to wait until I return to Earth in seven years. But we can at least exchange brief messages. Ms. Fee, I trust the recording equipment is working on your end. After Mr. Gold has recorded his message, if you'll instruct your system to upload the recording to NASA, they'll forward it to me and I'll have it before the end of the day."

Jo and I tested the system last night and found it in proper working order. We nod, though we're nodding at a recording.

The newcomer reaches into his jacket and withdraws a cube. When he twists it, a small, faint holograph appears upon its surfaces. We can make out an infant cuddled in the arms of someone we met earlier through the 'deck. Mr. Gold catches on right away: "It's Zach's boy! That's Zach's boy!" Gold leans forward so far that Jo has to grab his shoulder to keep him from falling out of his wheelchair.

"I've waited all my life to be able to say this." The newcomer's dimples are an exact copy of Belle's. "Hello from Mars, Great-Grandfather Gold!"

"It's true, the tales are true," Gold gasps. "And he looks just like me and her; I'd know him anywhere."

"My name is Josiah Gideon Rosales, but everyone calls me Joey. I'm thirty years old. I'm an engineer for NASA." He pulls at his jacket so that his NASA badge shows prominently. "And I'm stationed here at the first town on Mars. We call it Musk City. This is my father." He raises the cube high. "He was Zachary Langston Rosales. Unfortunately he died while I was still in high school. My other father, Joaquin Rosales, is still alive and I hope you can meet him sometime; he's an accountant for NASA in Houston. I don't have any brothers or sisters. Ms. Fee tells me that I'm the last of the Gold family line. I never got to meet you, Great-Grandpa, but I've grown up hearing stories about you and Great-Grandma and Gideon and everyone else." He lowers his voice. "Even about Misthaven." He raises his voice again. "I don't know how our side of the family lost touch. I'm embarrassed to say, my Dads and I just kinda assumed you'd passed away. But I hope to get to meet you in person in seven years, when I return. In the meantime, we can exchange messages now and then, eh? And get acquainted. I'm allowed two three-minute messages a month. I don't think Dad will mind—"

A voice in the background, too distant for us to hear, interrupts and Joey glances over his shoulder, answers, then returns his attention to us. "My time's up, Gramps. Is it okay if I call you Gramps? I'll call again in thirty days. Please message me back. I want to hear all about you, well, as much as you can tell me in a public venue like this. And someday, seven years from now, there'll be a knock at your door and you'll open it and I'll be standing there, with a piece of Mars wrapped in a gold bow. You'll my only connection with the Gold side of my family, so I want—" The distant voice interrupts again. "Okay," Joey answers it, then winks at us. "Happy Father's Day, Gramps! See you soon!"

Gold is a proud man, dignified, dressed to impress; even after one of his blackouts he's always conscious of the image he projects. I used to think it was vanity that caused his self-consciousness, but as I've come to know him, I've learned that his teeth-gritting determination to appear perfectly groomed and composed doesn't issue from vanity. It's a defense mechanism. Armor with which to confront the world. The tailored suits, the tailored hair, the buffed fingernails, they all say to any bullies out there, "I may be small. I may be in a wheelchair. But I own this town and I can own you too."

That's how he greets the public, but not how he greets family. And Jo and I, we're family. That's why he allows us to see him sobbing into his Armani sleeve. As we kneel on either side of the wheelchair and offer our arms around his shoulders, I silently ask Jo if I was wrong to give Mr. Gold this recording. Jo shakes his head with a smile.

"Are you okay, Mr. Gold?" I dare to ask. I want to ask _are you mad at me?_

The old man's head bobs.

We continue to kneel beside him until the tears subside and his rough, red face turns up to us. "Take me back to my room, please. I need to wash up before I record my message to Mars."

We bounce back to our feet and Jo turns the wheelchair around, but Gold's hand shoots out to grasp my wrist. "Thank you, both of you. Thank you, daughter."

Blue has gifted him (and all the men in the House) with a tie for Father's Day (the others' ties were hand-knitted, Gold's came from Italy). With Jo's aid, Gold showers, shaves and dresses in his newest suit. He brushes his teeth and gargles, then drinks a cup of tea, then gives us a sharp nod. "I'm ready."

"Now you only have three minutes, remember," Jo cautions.

"Three minutes per month, twelve months a year, seven years. Two hundred fifty-two minutes to get acquainted with my great-grandson," he murmurs as he wheels out into the hallway. He suddenly grins. "Two thousand, five hundred fifty-five days until I can meet him in person." He glances back at us. "Well, come along. Hurry up!"

Behind his back, Jo and I shake hands in victory. "You did it," Jo hums in my ear before kissing my cheek. "He's got something to look forward to."

"Hope," I agree. "He's got work, love and hope."


End file.
